


may i touch, said he

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: 2008 Campaign Era, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 06:50:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14231661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: Jon's been awake for going on forty hours when the evening crowd sweeps him onto the train.





	may i touch, said he

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this prompt](https://podsavethekink.dreamwidth.org/659.html?thread=83347#cmt83347) at the kink meme, which asked for tommy making favs come in his pants in public; cleaned up and expanded here. title lifted from e.e. cummings.

Jon's been awake for going on forty hours when the evening crowd sweeps him onto the train.

At this point in the campaign, none of them ever leave the OFA offices early enough to get caught in the Loop's rush hour anymore, but Plouffe let them go ahead of schedule today. Under normal circumstances, that would've meant dinner and beers at Miller's Pub down the street, or crossing the river to bar-hop at a more leisurely pace on a Friday night. They've all been working on the Wright controversy for the better part of a week, though, and it's cold and wet and slushy outside, the typical trappings of early March in Chicago; once Plouffe gave the go ahead, no one had really wanted to stick around.

Jon's managed to get himself wedged into a tight corner of the car they all stepped into. He tries to peer past the other passengers to find someone he recognizes, but the damn train is so full that it's difficult to move. He thinks he might be able to see the pom of Gibbs' hat from where he's standing, but the train rocks, and he loses track again.

 _Whatever_ , Jon thinks, sagging back, letting his eyes slip shut as he slumps against the wall. By the time they get further up the red line, things will probably have cleared, and he'll be able to find his friends again.

He must actually doze off a little, dead on his feet, because the next thing he registers is the train screeching into the next station. Jon nearly loses his balance and falls flat on his face, but a steady hand grabs him just in time, a warm body pressing him back against the wall, and when Jon looks up, Tommy's peering at him, eyes wide with concern. His messenger bag is pulled back behind him, and his jacket's tucked against the strap.

"Oh, hey," Jon says, mouth dry. "There you are." He cracks a small smile. "Knew you'd come and rescue me."

Tommy huffs. "You're a disaster," he says, but he lets Jon lean forward and press his forehead against the solid curve of his shoulder anyway.

The train lurches into motion once more. Jon sinks into the sway of the train, half-dozing; all he has to do is get back to the Pad and then he can crash for ten hours and not have to worry about work. Unless something crazy happens tomorrow morning and Jon gets called into the office again, but—he isn't going to jinx it by thinking about it. Someone sitting in the seats closest to them gets up as the PA system announces their imminent arrival at Chicago station, and Tommy lists into Jon as the crowd reshuffles to let people through. "You smell nice," Jon mumbles without thinking, and Tommy just laughs at him.

There's a little more movement at this stop, folks streaming out of the car and more people shuffling in to replace them. Jon's starting to feel too warm in his winter wear, but there's no room to wiggle out of it, not like this. He'll just have to deal with it.

Tommy loses his balance as the train pulls out; he exhales as he crushes Jon further into the corner, and it's—maybe it's a combination of the lack of sleep and the way Tommy's thigh slides in between his and how Jon hasn't jerked off in weeks, too busy and too tired to do anything but crash when they get back to the flophouse after work. Maybe it's the rocking motion of the car, or how Tommy's holding him against the wall. Regardless, Jon's body reacts of its own volition, and Tommy must be able to feel the hard line of Jon's dick through the khakis he's been wearing for a week straight, because Jon hears him inhale sharply through his nose.

"Tommy," Jon says, shaky. He squeezes his eyes shut, still slumped over against Tommy's shoulder, and his hips hitch without his permission.

"What," Tommy murmurs. When Jon lifts his head, Tommy's licking his lips, eyes darting down between them. "Do you need—" He pushes his knee up against the wall, locking beneath Jon and sliding up so it's pressed firmer against Jon's crotch, and—

This is crazy. The L's one of the cleaner public transit systems Jon's had the privilege of riding, but it's still the fucking subway, and if Jon reached out, he'd be brushing up against the commuters holding onto the poles and the railings barely half a foot away. There's absolutely zero privacy—being here is the opposite of privacy—but Tommy's staring down at him and edging even closer, squeezing the breath out of Jon's chest. As Jon watches, Tommy's hands reach down to grip Jon's hips through his pants.

Jon suddenly feels wide awake.

"What are you doing?" he hisses, low enough so only Tommy can catch it. Or—he hopes only Tommy can catch it, because when he peers over the broad expanse of Tommy's body, he can see Alyssa leaning up to chat with Gibbs, and further into the car, the fluffy hood of Ronnie's winter jacket.

"What do you think?" Tommy says, eyes flashing. It'd be _crazy_ to—fucking—to _get off_ in a moving subway train during Friday night rush hour in the Loop. They've barely even done this enough times to count in a normal setting, hushed jerk-off sessions at home, trading hand-jobs in a hotel when they're on the road, but—they're doing this, apparently. It's happening. Tommy rolls his thigh up again, and Jon's hips rock helplessly.

He's going to come in his pants like a teenager, frotting against Tommy's leg, and there's not going to be a thing he can do about it.

Jon makes a muffled noise, head tipping forward to rest against Tommy's shoulder again, and Tommy brings one of his hands up to slide over Jon's mouth. "Shh," Tommy says, straight in Jon's ear. Jon shivers, grinding down, trying to get more friction. "You don't want anyone to hear, do you?"

Jon shakes his head, panting against the soft material of Tommy's hoodie.

"That's it," Tommy murmurs. "Just—keep doing that. I'll take care of you. No one can see."

Jon doesn't know if that's actually true, but he wants to believe it, and he's desperate enough not to care if it isn't. He ruts forward, knees buckling a little as he squeezes his thighs around Tommy's, and Tommy holds him up, firm and unyielding. Jon feels a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his face, tickle his neck, and he braces his hands against Tommy's waist for leverage. He's starting to lose the thread, rhythm erratic, but he lets his lips brush against the inside of Tommy's palm, a soft kiss pressed into the center of it, and Tommy's breath whooshes out of him all at once, ruffling across Jon's hair.

He bites down against the meat of the heel of Tommy's hand to keep from making a sound when he comes, tense and shaking, feels himself making an abject mess of his own underwear. For a minute, all he can feel is the dizzy spinning in his head and the continuous sway of the train, indistinguishable from the wave of his orgasm crashing through his body. He'd be on his knees if Tommy weren't still holding him up.

The train coasts to another stop. Jon opens his eyes and blinks against the fluorescent lights. There's a red bite mark on Tommy's hand when he pulls it away from Jon's mouth, and Jon can feel how turned on Tommy is against his hip.

When Jon glances down, a wet spot is rapidly spreading across the crotch of his own khakis. "Ugh," he says, wrinkling his nose. He's gonna have to strategically hold his backpack in front of him all the way back to the house, or appropriate Tommy's jacket to tie around his waist.

"That was," Tommy croaks, voice half an octave lower than usual, and can't figure how to finish the sentence. He's so pink that his face would be hot to the touch if Jon brushed his hand over one sharp cheekbone. "Holy shit."

"Yeah," Jon says, feeling punch-drunk and daring, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He looks around, trying to be covert. No one else is paying them any attention, so he reaches down and squeezes Tommy through his jeans, brief but hard, watches Tommy's mouth fall open soundlessly. "I'll get you back when we get home."

Tommy's eyes flash again, wide as saucers, and Jon grins. He's been awake for forty hours; he can stay awake long enough to get Tommy off before the sleep deficit catches up with him.

 

 

Everything from the train station to the house is a blur of slushy streets and speed walking. Jon faintly registers Alyssa waving at them before they break off from the main group, and then Tommy's shuffling him down the sidewalk and into the house.

"Impatient, huh," Jon manages, dropping his bag on the floor of the living room. He can grab it again later, though his electronics probably aren't going to thank him. It doesn't matter. Tommy's basically frog-marching Jon at this point, wheeling them into the closest bathroom on the first floor and sliding the door shut with the back of his foot.

"You have no idea," Tommy says, and this close, he's tall enough that Jon has to tip his head back to look up at him. Tommy's searching Jon's face; what he's looking for, Jon can't say, but he must find it, because the corner of his mouth curls upward. "What else would you let me do, if I asked?"

"A lot," Jon says, before he can stop himself, and Tommy groans, and then Jon's hands dive down to unbutton Tommy's jeans, pull him out past the waistband of his underwear, and—

Jon wasn't expecting, when he left the office for an early Friday night off, that he would be spending a not insignificant amount of time on his knees, giving the first blowjob of his young life, but here he is. "Jon," Tommy gasps, as Jon leans in to nuzzle his dick, mouth along the shaft. One of his broad hands brushes against the fuzz of Jon's buzz cut, settles around the back of his neck. A grounding touch, like so many of Tommy's are.

When he's this hard, Tommy's too big to fit entirely in Jon's mouth, but Jon tries, anyway. That's what counts, he thinks dimly. Some of the best blowjobs Jon's gotten haven't been from people who were particularly skilled; it was just hotter when you could tell someone wanted it, wanted to touch and swallow and choke a little, wanted to be able to feel it in their throat the next day.

Tommy doesn't know this is Jon's first blowjob, or if he knows, he doesn't seem to care. Jon gags around Tommy's dick when it hits the back of his throat, and Tommy holds him there, fingers pressed into the hot skin at the back of his neck, as solid as when he held Jon up against the wall of the subway car. Jon feels himself getting hard again in his stiff, sticky underwear, and has to reach down to palm himself, take the edge off.

"Jon, fuck," Tommy says, sounding wounded. Jon pulls back with a wet pop, looks up at Tommy through his lashes and jerks him off the rest of the way. Tommy's hips stutter when he comes, stripes across Jon's cheek and his open mouth.

They stay there for a long, unbroken moment, Tommy's hand heavy against his neck, both of them trying to catch their breath. The rest of the house is quiet except for vague clattering he can hear in the kitchen—Mike, or maybe Ronnie, pulling a hot pocket or something else quick and microwaveable out of the freezer for dinner.

"Get a better diet," Jon says at last, grimacing around the gritty taste of Tommy's jizz, and Tommy laughs and shoves his shoulder even as he's helping Jon up. His expression turns sharp when Jon wiggles out of his khakis and stares down at the mess of his underwear. "You definitely owe me a load of laundry for this, Tom."

"Yeah, alright," Tommy says, and then, a little less certain: "As long as we can do it again."

Jon inhales. "The blowjobs or the train frotting?" he asks. He's pretty proud of how steady his voice comes out.

"Either," Tommy says, skin flushed a dark, mottled pink. He ducks his head, suddenly shy, which is absurd considering he's still untucked, dick going soft in the air between them. "Both? Whatever you want."

"Okay," Jon says without missing a beat, and the look on Tommy's face is like the sunrise, something Jon wants to keep happening, again and again. Could be the sluggish endorphins still coursing through him that are doing the talking, but Jon doesn't think so. He's beginning to think he'd step over the edge of a cliff for that look; it would be more startling, more disconcerting, if the revelation wasn't about Tommy. "I'd like that," he says, and smiles back.


End file.
